


Of fickle hopes

by DrSchaf



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rick Being an Asshole, Seasons 1-5, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: The itching turns out to be a name on his lower belly, square in the middle above his pubic hair like someone measured the position with a goddamn ruler.Rick, it says.Of course it does.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Comments: 31
Kudos: 314





	Of fickle hopes

**Author's Note:**

> Another Soulmate-AU no one asked for. I changed some scenes to my liking - bits of dialog and scenery - but everything should fit into canon just fine. 
> 
> Thanks a lot to my beta Chainsawlicker for sticking with me even when I keep switching between fandoms! You're the best :)

His heart picks up speed, clenching fiercely and then some even before he hears the commotion not far from where he's trying to _hunt_ , for god's sake.

Daryl pounds his fist against his chest to get rid of the awful pressure and stomps through the undergrowth without caring if he tramples over the trail or not. His heart feels like it's about to give out or something—he might be having a heart attack because their hollering chased off the deer he's been following all day.

Yeah, that's probably it.

Daryl steps into the small clearing and just so manages not to clutch his chest in alarm when his heart starts stuttering too. He scowls at the dumb half-circle these people got going for them; gawking around with stupid faces rather than dealing with the walker or their _food_ getting chewed on by it.

They couldn't make it more obvious that they never needed to hunt a day in their lives.

Scoffing, he's off calling for Merle, very much ignoring his hammering heartbeat. Because that ain't normal. Following tracks and shooting squirrels didn't exhaust him, least not enough his heart would just give out like that.

And Merle ain't here.

“Daryl,” Shane says. “I gotta talk to you.”

Daryl licks his lips and glances around the camp. Over by the RV, folks try themselves at whispering, but they never had to learn to be quiet and to listen. They're like children that way; wouldn't survive a day without their suitcases and lighters and radio batteries.

Wouldn't survive a day trying to keep a secret they don't want him to know.

Only question is where they chased his brother off to, and why, and what that second cop-clown got to do with anything.

“You got somethin' you wanna tell me?”

“Your brother was a danger to us all,” the man says, “so I handcuffed him on a roof and hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there.”

Least he's straight forward about it.

Doesn't make it right, though.

Daryl flings the squirrels at him, but it's of no use—in a matter of seconds, Shane's got him in a choke hold while that other guy talks at him in a sad and sorry fucking way.

He damn well should be. Leaving his brother out there to get eaten for no good reason (fuckin' Merle, there's always a reason) is even worse than what they planned for _them_.

As soon as they let him go, Daryl paces away and pretends his hands ain't shaking and his eyes ain't burning. Because they _ain't_. It's from the choke hold.

With a pointed sniff, he rubs his arm over his face and gets his shit together because they're talking about him, Shane and that cop guy with his eerie white shirt and clean hands and borrowed shoes, and he needs to know what it's about.

The moment he looks over at them, his heart stops hammering and he starts itching instead - somewhere he got no business to itch.

Maybe he's got a tick on his belly, but he ain't gonna look now that they're all watching him. And maybe his heart got all worried because it knew somehow. About Merle and what they did to him.

To hell with his brother if he thinks he can leave him alone with these people.

He won't accept it, simple as that.

—

Daryl holds onto the thought when they go to rescue Merle even as Officer white-shirt insists they do it together.

His heart thuds loudly all the way into the city, in the city, and on the way out of it. The rhythm stays the same when Officer—Rick. When Rick holds a gun to his head and when he shoves him back by his chest and when they fight for the Asian kid and when he thinks about ways to off T-Dog as revenge for his brother.

This ain't worry.

Something's wrong with his heart, something urgent that's gonna end with a heart attack and them people having to put a bullet in his brain so he ain't gonna eat them all.

He'll fucking _die_.

—

The fight's ugly.

They don't even want him here, but he fights for them because he's got no idea what else to do. The nasty fuck who beats on Carol dies, as does Amy and a lot of other folks he never cared to learn the names of, but others live because Rick's a machine set on saving people who got no business being alive in this world.

When it's done with, he's getting even more side-eyes than before.

The feeling is mutual, but he knows he ain't gonna make it alone. Not with his heart doing whatever it's doing. And Merle's alive somewhere, which means he'll come back. Guns blazing maybe, and hella pissed, but Merle _will_ be back.

He just has to stick with them till that happens.

*

The itching turns out to be a name on his lower belly, square in the middle above his pubic hair like someone measured the position with a goddamn ruler.

_Rick_ , it says.

Of course it does.

Waiting for a Mark to turn up after falling in love ain't something he ever planned on doing. He ain't done it now either. Falling in love or talking to the man more than a few words.

Goddammit.

You're supposed to fall for someone first, be in a relationship second, and then wait for the name of the other person to appear somewhere on your skin. The order is all wrong now.

Apart from everything else that's wrong about it.

People don't find some guy's name on their belly while showering in the fucking Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, especially not if that someone is married and got an at least somewhat active sex life, judging by the kid running around and the noises that came from their tent every other night.

Which he ain't been listening to.

But still. She comes around, that woman.

First Shane, now his—now Rick.

Daryl leaves the shower, ignores the mirror, and gets dressed to find something to drown himself with, preferably a high percentage of the good, mind-numbing stuff. After a moment of thinking about it, he leaves his crossbow on the bed to show some goodwill.

His fingers tingle with nothing to hold on to, and he lets the door fall shut behind him with more force than necessary.

“Hey.”

Daryl swings around and is confronted with Rick leaning against the wall like his legs are made of jelly. “What?”

What's Rick doing lurking in the hallway all drunk like that, where did he get the booze from, and how inappropriate would it be to ask if he's got his wife's name on him? Or if she got his? It's not a given, a lot of folks marry without. It's not too far-fetched or anything.

He could ask.

“You alright?”

Daryl blinks down at Rick's legs and spots a bottle of brandy dangling from his fingers. “'m good. Fine.”

“That's good.”

They stand around, goddamn awkward.

“It's late,” Rick says.

“And you?” Daryl asks, balling his fists because—really.

“Me? I'm not- What? I'm not late.”

Daryl licks his lips and thinks about how Rick's name leaned to the right, just slightly. The wrong way around when he looked at it from above. Neat, tidy letters, stark on his skin like they were written with one of them felt pens. He wonders if Rick's got one in his pocket now. Probably not, but maybe he liked to sign reports with them back in the day.

“Meant if you're alright too,” he says so at length, Rick slumped against the wall in the meantime, blinking at him out of slow, red eyes.

“Long day.” Rick shrugs, looking down at his hand. “Want the rest? Think I've probably had enough.”

Daryl reaches for the offered bottle and drinks, sighing in relief to have something to do for a second or two. “You look like shit,” he says after swallowing down a bitter gulp.

“Yeah,” Rick says, and turns away. Then he turns back again, arms swinging wildly around him. His hand knocks against the wall, and Rick's face pulls into a slow grimace before he cradles his hand to his chest, rubbing his thumb over his wedding band like he wants to polish it.

It's a sign, that's what.

Rick's got a wife, and if there's a name on his body, it's hers. Rick ain't keen to find out his own name is on someone like _him_. He might even be offended enough to send him away.

With a quiet thud, Rick lets his head fall back against the wall. “You got somethin' to say to me?”

Hell no.

“Don't wanna hold you back from sleepin',” Daryl says because he can slip into his room and close the door and hold the bottle hostage in case he's making too much of a fool of himself. “'s late, like you said.”

Rick hums. “We'll have to see what Jenner can tell us tomorrow, go from there.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Rick mumbles. “That mean you're gonna stay?”

Daryl drinks again, briefly looking up into the man's eyes. They tell him nothing new - nothing old either - just that he's finished the half that's missing from the bottle on his own. Makes him look soft around the eyes.

And his mouth too.

Rick leans forward and ducks his head to catch his eyes. “Hello?”

“Where else would I go?” Daryl mutters, turning away. “Go to sleep, man. You're wasted.” Without waiting for an answer in case Rick's still soft, Daryl offers an awkward salute that ain't reciprocated, then hurries down the hallway and around the nearest corner as if he's got any idea where to go.

Behind him, Rick's door closes with a quiet click.

For a moment, Daryl stands without moving, itching unpleasantly and pretending he doesn't know it's the damn name again.

With his hand balled into a fist, he goes back to his room, locks the door, and drinks himself stupid.

*

Merle clicks his tongue. “I knew you were gonna be beggin' him on your _knees_ to be his bitch,” he says, and he sounds so dismissive about it, there ain't no doubt in his mind it's Merle for real. Maybe he's dead, then, if his damn ghost came up from hell to haunt him. “Knew it the second I laid my eyes on him. Trust me.” Merle shakes his head. “I got a nose for that sorta thing.”

His heart beats something fierce, clenching in his chest far more than reasonable, climbing or no. It's almost like it echoes or something, beating shallowly just a tic too late, too fast, too heavy. None of this is making any sense, but he sure as hell knows it ain't normal.

“So what? You hopin' you gonna need some medical attention when you get back?” Merle grins, obnoxious as ever.

Daryl rubs the sweat off his forehead and pulls himself up to the next root. “In case ya haven't noticed,” he grunts out, “I'm kinda busy here. Don't you got someplace else to be?”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyways, that wound needs stitchin', little brother. Ain't no way you can keep that-” Merle snorts, elbowing him in the face—no, it's a branch. “That lovely name you got yourself, no way your Officer there ain't gonna get a _good_ look at it when they patch you up. Bet you think he's gonna be all over yer hairy ass like in one of them TV shows you like so much.”

“Shut up.”

Goddamn ghost-brother that he is, Merle ain't even there anymore; it's just his voice up by the edge of the slope, hollering down at him like he's got nothing else to do. If the bastard had a face, Daryl would fucking punch it.

“That what you want, baby brother? Get cast in a role like that?” Merle guffaws, long and hard. “Tearin' his clothes off and all of that when you can turn 'round and say 'oh no sweetheart, is just for the camera, you got nothin' to worry 'bout with me'.”

Just before his arms give up after all, Merle stops talking for long enough to pull him over the edge.

“There ya go,” he says, and then he goes right on. “That's what my sweet little brother wants, I always knew. You're over there collectin' injuries till there's gotta be an _examination_ , ain't that right? Cause lemme tell ya, it ain't gonna happen like you think it does. He ain't gonna have no name on him, least not yours, and you can be a pussy about it all you want, but you can't fool me-”

“Shut up for a minute.” Daryl takes a deep breath, hisses through his teeth to manage the pain in his side, and struggles to his feet. “And I don't,” he says once he's got enough air in his lungs to do so. “I know he ain't got my name on him. Don't want him to either. Don't want shit from him at all.” He glares around at Merle's invisible face. “So you're wrong.”

“Am I now? Thinkin' that you're a pussy? Cause that's the truth, non-negotiable. Or 'bout you beggin' Officer Friendly to give you a good old cavity search? Which one's the one, huh?”

Daryl clenches his jaw and shuffles on.

“Oh, Darlena.” Merle sighs, long and tragic. “You got it from here? Farm's past that hill and then to the right, if ya keep it straight.”

Daryl leans against a tree and squints around, his sense of coordination shot to hell with all the damn talking. “ _Now_ you're gonna leave? Could've fuckin' done that hours ago.”

Nothing.

Daryl turns in a circle, sluggish and slow even though he knows he ain't gonna find him. Talking to himself ain't as much fun without hallucinating up dead brothers, though.

With a sigh, he turns around and heads back to the farm.

Feels like it takes hours, but the sun's still shining and his side keeps hurting like hell and his leg ain't feeling so good either, and then he can already see the big white house and their cars parked in a neat circle in front of it.

And Rick, running up to him all sweaty and so fine his heart almost beats out of his chest. Ain't fucking normal, this excitement. It doesn't even turn worried when Rick trains his gun on him (again). His heart's just damn happy, and the echo is so faint he's just fine with pretending he can't feel it at all.

All in all, it's a damn spectacular welcome.

Then the Lord gives him a good ol' sign by letting him get shot.

—

Daryl jerks awake by his own flailing. Someone's touching him—from behind, by his back, there's no shirt, he's lying on a bed on his side and someone took off his shirt, someone's behind him _seeing_ —

“Easy, easy.”

Rick.

Rick's standing beside the bed, on his left.

He has no shirt on and Rick's on his left where his chest is and someone else is on his right where his back is.

“You've been shot,” Rick says in a deep, soothing voice. “But you're gonna be fine. It was an accident.” He glances at the person behind him, then bends over low to catch his eyes. “You may not even need stitches. Hershel here will look at your other wound now, alright? The one on your side?” He licks his lips. “You hurt anywhere else?”

Damn near everywhere. There's no solution for this save for fighting his way out of the house.

Quickly, Daryl scans the room to see if one of them carried his crossbow inside.

“Easy, alright?” With raised hands, Rick backs off and motions to Hershel.

“I'll give you a minute,” the old man says.

He can't see his crossbow. He can barely see shit, with the way he's panting and feeling dizzy. They must've given him something while he was out.

“It's just- I'm-” Daryl stops because the words sound as pathetic as his voice does. When he looks up again, Rick's about to head for the door, which means he's about to round him and see his back.

But he probably saw his back already. What with them undressing him.

Daryl lets out a hectic breath and glances down at himself. It takes a moment of blinking until he's sure that his pants sit high enough. There ain't a single hint of Rick's name to be seen anywhere.

“Hold on,” he rasps before he knows he's doing it. He clears his throat. “Who the hell shot me?”

With a strange look on his face, Rick wanders back in his line of sight. “It was an accident. Don't worry about it now.”

Strangely enough, he doesn't.

Rick points at his side, frowning heavily. “That wound needs to get cleaned. You think you're up for that?”

It's unnatural to speak to a man while lying down. He half-wishes Rick would sit on the chair beside the bed, or maybe even on the mattress, and talk to him on an eye to eye level.

But they're not eye to eye.

Rick doesn't have an echo in his heart that drives him up the wall, and he ain't got a name on his belly and he ain't seen the scars on his back because he ain't looking at him like that. Anywhere but his face.

Because Rick's got a wife who he thought was lost, and he's got a kid who thinks he's some kind of hero, and they don't need him here. They barely tolerate him at all, and he should be damn well grateful they're treating his wounds in the first place.

It's either show some humility or end up like Merle.

“Yeah,” Daryl mutters, folding his arm under his head and lying down properly. “'m good. Sorry.”

With a tight smile, Rick leaves to fetch Hershel.

—

Lori is pregnant with Shane's kid and Shane killed Otis and Sophia is dead.

Daryl sits by the low-burning fire and spies on the people around him for the millionth time. For the life of him, he can't see Marks on either Rick or Lori. The bad part: they ain't in the habit of running around naked, so he's trying all day, every day while also trying to move away from the group and not letting the others know what he's doing.

It's a shitfest.

Horror stories about unrequited soulmates run in circles through his head until all he's doing is wallowing in self-pity and watching Shane for signs of the upcoming explosion.

Because that man _will_ explode. Rick knows it too. But he loves Shane.

That's the mistake.

Can't love someone like Shane in a world like this. He'll sooner kill them all before he takes his place in the chain of command below Rick, but Rick can't see it because he's too busy convincing Hershel or placating Lori or indulging Andrea or giving him the side-eye.

Him, of all people.

Rick wrote his name on his belly right after they saw each other for the first time, and he's supposed to be the weird one here? And Rick (or his soul, his fucking soul) did that even though he ain't interested in that _lifestyle_ at all.

It ain't fucking normal to fall for someone who tells you they handcuffed your brother to a roof, no matter how annoying the bastard is. Ain't normal to know his heart thuds dully because Rick's all the way across the field with his own beating for Lori.

He shouldn't have gone hunting that day in Atlanta. He should've gone with Merle and avoided all of this by robbing these people blind.

—

Glenn and Maggie found each other, Marks included.

Soulmate-business ain't supposed to be announced in public, but these are the end times and Glenn doesn't seem to care. They're happy, all of them.

“Such a rare thing,” Carol says in a hollow voice.

Daryl grunts and pushes past the celebrations to go to his tent. Thank god that he already moved away. The last thing he needs is folks flaunting their happy-ever-after in his face while he's got to deal with Rick matching Shane's craziness more by the day.

—

Hershel, because he's Hershel, officially declares him ready for light duties come tomorrow morning.

Which means he can hunt with no one giving him shit from now on - not that he cares much - but it also means they're gonna stop allowing him to use the nice bathroom in the big house to 'keep his wounds clean'.

Daryl blows out a satisfied breath and tightens the knot of the bathrobe he very accidentally forgot to take off when he left. He's lying in his tent and staring through a miniature hole in the ceiling at the branches above. It's sort of soothing in a way he thought nothing besides beer and trash TV could be.

At least until he hears someone coming over. To him—nothing else out here but his tent.

Daryl listens and identifies human steps rather than a walker's a moment before he recognizes Rick's way of walking, then the man lets himself in already.

“Hershel said he cleared you,” Rick says once his head is through.

Slowly, because he's always reacting in a damn stupid way when Rick's involved, Daryl leans up on his elbows and blinks. “Yeah,” he says while Rick closes the flap of the tent and kneels down beside him like he owns the fucking place. “What you doin'?”

“Rechecking it,” Rick states. “Your head looks fine, at least. Your side still hurt?”

“What?”

Rick frowns and sits back on his heels rather heavily. “I won't let you go back out there without making sure you're fine. We've had enough losses. We can't afford to lose someone else, especially with your skills.”

The stupid slowness takes over his head too—he can't think of a single sentence that makes sense, let alone an answer to whatever the hell Rick's going on about. “I'm out there every day,” he points out. “You know that.”

Rick looks at him with that new crazy-shine in his eyes. “I'll be out of here in two minutes tops. I'll just take a quick look, it's not gonna hurt.”

Two minutes.

He's already in here longer than two minutes, and during that time, Rick obviously missed that he's wearing a _bathrobe_ of all things.

“Daryl.”

Daryl lets out a quiet sound that comes out of nowhere and makes no sense at all. Before he knows he's doing it, he turns away from Rick and loosens the knot enough to slip out of the arms of the bathrobe. “Make it quick,” he says, wiggling a bit to let the fabric slide down and give Rick the access he apparently so desperately needs.

Rick's on him before he has time to sort himself, then he's already flat on his stomach and Rick prods at what's left of the arrow wound.

It stings in a way that's a lot of things, but painful ain't one of them.

“You good now or what?” he mumbles into his blanket.

With a grunt, Rick spreads his fingers and slides his hand over Daryl's back.

Daryl twitches away. “What the _hell_ , man?”

“Who did this?”

“What do you think you're doin'?” he asks in a high voice—instead of getting up or throwing Rick out or doing anything but squirming slightly while Rick fingers the scars on his back like he's got a fucking invitation to do so.

“For his sake, I hope he's dead by now,” Rick says, quiet and calm while he peels down the bathrobe and spreads his hand over the small of Daryl's back. “I hope he was awake for it until the end.”

There's something in his throat that's too big to swallow but too small to choke him. It makes him let out a tiny wheeze and nothing else while his thoughts run fucking wild because Rick's _seeing_ him.

That part.

And he's letting him.

“Daryl?”

Daryl stares at the wall of the tent, eternally grateful that he chose to face away from Rick.

“Can you take this thing off?”

“What for?” he croaks, hard already and sweaty and near tears because this ain't supposed to be it. Rick ain't supposed to pull down his bathrobe, and most of all, he ain't supposed to help Rick by opening the knot and letting it happen.

“Saw you lookin' at me.” Rick pushes the fabric to the side and gives his butt a light squeeze. “Almost drove me nuts.”

Clenching his butt cheeks, Daryl rises on his elbows and looks at Rick over his shoulder. His left arm is the only part that's still wearing the bathrobe - bunched up next to him as a barrier between him lying there with his dick pressing against the hard ground and Rick petting his ass. “You've got a wife.”

And a kid and another one on the way and no name on him.

Rick huffs and lets the tips of his fingers slip down the cleft of his ass. Daryl clenches again, sort of trapping Rick's fingers without meaning to. His face is burning, but Rick ain't even _looking_ at his face.

“Rick,” he croaks. “You've got a wife, man. You ain't-”

“Lori's pregnant with Shane's kid.”

There's that.

“Got any lotion in here?” Rick looks up at him, finally, and Daryl's so surprised by his heart skipping a beat, he momentarily forgets to clench and keep Rick's fingers where they are. With a demented grin, Rick brushes the tips down over the back of his balls. “Oil?” he prompts. “Anythin' to slick the way.”

Jesus Christ, Jesus— “Hold on. Hold on a moment.”

Rick stops moving and starts frowning instead. “Quit the bullshit, Daryl. I saw you lookin'. I know this isn't just me.”

His arms shake from holding himself up as if he hasn't moved a muscle in ages. Like a fat, old couch potato that always reacts the wrong way and gives the wrong impression and waits too long to answer, and Rick's prodding his thighs open so he lets him.

He lets him.

“I ain't gay,” he says while he pulls his backpack closer and searches for the Nivea jar he's got in there. His hands shake too. “I ain't.”

“I know.”

And he doesn't need this. Never did. Not like this, because it's for weak people and he ain't weak.

He doesn't know how to tell Rick.

“Let me.” Rick leaves him lying with his knees spread like a whore to help him search. It takes a moment, then he pulls the jar out of his backpack and hums. “This'll do, I guess,” he says as he coats his fingers. “Didn't do much of this in my life, though. Tell me if it's not workin' for you.”

Maybe Rick already knows.

A few seconds of probing are enough for Rick to find his way, then his finger presses inside all wrong, burning and making his name burn along. Rick pushes down between his shoulder blades and makes him lie down flat, but even though Daryl follows his lead, Rick takes his finger out again.

“What?” Daryl mutters. Somehow, he's looking to the other side now—at Rick's knee and the curve of his back where he's bent over his ass. He should've stayed looking at the tent instead.

“Would be easier if you got up on your knees.”

“No.”

Rick breathes out a laugh and goes back to work.

The wrong angle makes it difficult, which means he's making it difficult for Rick, and he ain't got a clue how to change that without submitting to him. Without telling Rick it's fine to do whatever he wants with him.

Because he ain't gone that far yet.

“Would be easier,” Rick says roughly. “Is all I'm saying.”

Good fucking god, the man got his finger in his ass and now he wants to talk.

“Or you could turn around.”

“ _Hell_ no.” Daryl jerks away, keening quietly as Rick follows his movement without pulling out. It's a defeat. He's been defeated. If he ain't gonna outright punch him, Rick's gonna fuck him in his own tent and he'll like it and maybe Rick will like it too.

“Is this you bein' skittish or do you really don't want to? You need to tell-”

“Shut up.” Daryl gets up on his knees and leans his forehead on his arm, eyes pressed shut against it all. “Just do it.”

Rick lets out a quiet groan and shoves two fingers inside of him without much of a warning.

As if a warning would help with anything. Nobody ever—if Merle could fucking see him now, he'd beat them to death. He would. And he knew, Merle knew when he helped him out by the creek, and if he were here on this farm with them, he'd know exactly what they were doing alone in his tent and he'd come looking and he'd find him on his knees with his ass in the air and Rick's fingers pushing into him with purpose while he bites down on something that might be a sob.

And then they'd be dead.

“I think that should do it.” Rick doesn't sound too sure—a relief and a pain in the ass (literally) at the same time. Least he ain't done a lot of gay stuff before coming to him.

Rick rumbles out a breathy noise.

Daryl glances back and catches a glimpse of Rick's cock getting swallowed by his fist as he rubs lotion all over it. He breathes through his mouth so he doesn't swallow all the saliva that's suddenly flooding it and looks away again.

“Alright.” Shoving to make room, Rick moves behind him and grips his hips, fingers sticky on Daryl's skin.

Something blunt pokes him, and Daryl balls his fists. When Rick pulls him backward, Daryl rises on his hands and lets the man sort their limbs until he's stretching painfully around him, until he gives up fighting for a dignity he lost the moment he took off the bathrobe anyway. He lets Rick manhandle him into position and ends up squatting over Rick's bent legs before he's pulled down to sit squarely on his lap.

On his dick.

The scars must be right in front of Rick's face.

Daryl clenches his fists and focuses on breathing.

“Yeah?” Rick says. It sounds like a question, breathless as it is.

For a stupid moment, Daryl wonders where Rick's hands are at. Why he ain't touching him right now—or at all, something other than putting his fingers into him.

If he's to convince Rick that this is a good idea - something he's gotta do again - he'll have to do better.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, okay. 's good.”

Rick shoves him forward by his shoulders so Daryl's supporting himself on his thighs, muscles trembling before they even started. Rick's cock slips out, but just a few inches, not all the way—he's got it all figured out, Daryl thinks, momentarily panicking as he gets aware of the empty space between them, but then Rick closes it by thrusting up and his thoughts fly right out of the closed flap of the small and stuffy tent.

“Fuck, Daryl.” Rick presses into him until he can't go any further and takes a hold of his hips to keep him in place. “ _Yes_ ,” he breathes, setting up a rhythm.

Daryl holds on and lets his head hang in the shame of it all. When he feels brave enough to open his eyes, he looks at his dick and the fluid dripping down from it. He ain't been touched at all, not in a nice-and-good way, but that doesn't seem to matter.

If he's gonna do well, Rick might like it enough to come back for more, and then there could be more touching too.

Rick groans. “This what you thought about when you were watchin' me?”

Nope.

“Tell me.”

He should've been more careful.

“Rick, man,” he presses out. “We don't gotta talk while you revenge-fuck me.”

Groaning out something that sounds more like anger than lust, Rick slams up all the way and keeps him there. It damn well hurts enough Daryl tries to squirm out of his hold, but only half-heartedly, and then Rick sort of kneads the fat on his sides and makes him still his movements again. Without even—without being _nice_ for a second.

“That ain't what this is,” Rick says, matter of fact.

Daryl stutters out a rough breath, way too hopeful for a fucked up situation like this. “No? What's it, then?”

Rick huffs. “This is to get it out of our systems.”

Right.

“Yeah,” Daryl rasps. “Course. Right.”

Like he wished for, that seems to be the end of Rick's need to hold a conversation; he slings one arm around Daryl's waist and goes back to business in a way that's so obviously set on finishing what he started, Daryl's got to bite down on a moan that might come out as a sob instead. Or the other way around.

Ain't important because Rick lets out a really tiny, really stupid grunt with every thrust, and he's focusing on it so completely, he would've missed Rick coming if he couldn't feel it inside of him.

It's a goddamn enema. Rick's giving him an enema, and he's sweating like a pig too. All the washing ain't done nothing.

“God.” Rick sighs, panting, reaching for his arm. “Alright, come on.”

Daryl stares down as Rick grips his hand and, bumping around blindly, fumbles it around his cock. The moment Daryl starts pumping, Rick lets go of him and leans his forehead against his nape.

“That's right,” Rick murmurs, breathing down his sweaty back. “Go on.”

Nice or no, he can't remember the last time someone who ain't been Merle touched him this long. He can't remember the last time he was fucked either - because he never was - or the last time he sat on someone's lap so ready to come he might explode from just a few strokes.

Never, never.

Shaking, Daryl pumps his fist and comes fast and hard, clenching around the man before he's even pulled out of him.

“That's right,” Rick says again, still panting. The only thing missing is Rick telling him he did a good job coming like a damn teenager. “Sit up.”

His arms and legs are made of jelly, but Rick's tone brooks no argument and he ain't gonna keep the man here for longer than he cares to be here.

Which seems to be now.

With a quiet hiss he tries to keep to himself, Daryl heaves himself off, then he falls forward and barely catches himself on his arms. Behind him, Rick rustles with his clothes and helps himself to one of his bandannas to clean up.

He's gonna have to wash it himself, later. No way he's gonna give that to Carol.

Daryl swallows and sits back on his haunches for long enough to realize that Rick's crawling around him to reach the door. On instinct alone, he rips up the bathrobe and presses it to his chest to hide the Mark.

“Shy now?” Rick grins. “Suit yourself,” he says, opening the flap of the tent. “See you for last watch. Dinner's at six.”

Then he's gone.

—

He wants to think he falls hard and fast for the man, but that already happened.

He'll do whatever Rick needs him to do. Torturing kids, shooting Dale, offering relief.

If Rick asked him to, he'd drop to his knees and suck him down right on the porch for everyone to see. There's no way in hell he's gonna say no to anything Rick needs help with, and Rick _needs_ all the time.

Maybe because he needs _him_.

Yeah, that's good.

That's good.

*

Huddled under his poncho on the bed of the truck Maggie and Glenn are sleeping in, Daryl looks up at the stars and watches his misty breath drift off towards them. It's freezing, but his cheeks feel too hot and something in his chest is just plain restless.

Somewhere during the last month, he came to the conclusion that things can't go on the way they're going on right now: Lori looks like a whale while Rick ain't looking at her at all, and the kid starts to wear the same damn face he saw in the mirror every day growing up under that cursed roof that was his childhood trailer. There ain't enough food or water near any of the houses that can hold them for longer than a week at a time, and he should be desperate and ready to bolt, leave this lot behind because—yeah, alright, they're holding him back.

Instead, he's hunting squirrels and looking for water and keeping watch and fantasizing about finding a place that's warm enough he might see Rick's upper arms again. Among other things. Like his thighs, because he ain't seen them at all. With the way they were moving underneath him and him sitting on them the wrong way around.

And on the off chance that they find a place this warm, he'd wear less himself. And if that's the case, sometime, by accident, his shirt could get caught on something and Rick might see the Mark. And then things would go on from there.

If _he_ saw his name on someone's skin, he'd bolt. But he ain't Rick.

Rick would wanna touch it for sure. If only out of curiosity.

“Daryl?”

It's Lori, standing beside the truck. Despite being so used to these people by now, he should've heard her coming.

“Yeah?”

“I'm going-” She waves towards the tree line a few feet off the road. Constantly peeing nowadays—demanding stops at every damn turn.

“Everything's quiet,” he says, also quiet. “Go on. I'll keep an eye out.”

She wades off into the dark, the flickering of her flashlight the only hint to tell where she and that belly of hers are at. It's the size of a small city by now, but she ain't. She's a stick on legs.

Daryl hunches his shoulders up, hot and cold at the same time, and does his best to chase any and all fantasies out of his head. They're no good anyway.

If Rick saw his name on him, there'd be a minute or two of wonder and maybe that touching he'd like so much, but then he'd see it on Rick's face all the same: the embarrassment. It'd end with Rick awkwardly explaining how he's sorry, very sorry, but no matter how things may seem with Lori right now, he's worn her name on his skin since high school and that ain't something that's ever gonna change and—

It'd go on like that. Until he'd know for sure that he'll be alone forever.

As it is now, he can pretend.

“G'night,” Lori says with a small, hollow smile as she walks back to the car she shares with her family.

It's much better like this. Having some hope at the end of the world and all of that. And Lori's belly won't stay like that forever either. One of these days, she's gonna pop out a human being that's brand new, and she won't need as much food anymore, and the baby will drink her milk, and their situation will become less tense, so Rick will be less tense, and then they might fuck again.

So there's that. The sort of hope that's more reasonable.

—

Rick's wearing a pair of sunglasses inside the thoroughly looted supermarket that they looted through anyway. According to the lack of bulge his backpack shows as he saunters back over, that's about all he found.

“Got pretzel sticks,” Daryl offers wearily. “And some disinfectant spray.”

They haven't eaten in days.

“Mh,” Rick says.

They lean against the counter and share the pretzel sticks between them. They're rubber-like and the best thing he's tasted in weeks. Through the big front windows, he can see Glenn shuffling past with Beth and Maggie carrying several bags of whatever.

“They had more luck, looks like,” he says, pointing to where they're disappearing from view, but Rick doesn't acknowledge him. Or maybe he does. It's hard to tell behind the sunglasses. “Least we're eatin' dinner tonight.”

He thinks about the squirrels he stowed on the backseat of their car and smiles. When they get back to their temporary camp, Hershel will have made sticks to roast them and Carol will have made a fire.

It'll be good.

Rick hums, suddenly closer—sometime during the last minute, he leaned on his elbow and all the way into his space. “Wanna know what I found?”

Raising a questioning eyebrow, Daryl shoves the last pretzel sticks in his mouth.

“Lube.”

Daryl inhales a grain of salt and his eyes water before he even starts coughing.

“And condoms,” Rick says, waving his hand through the air. “Glenn's gonna be grateful as hell.”

Daryl keeps on coughing while Rick slaps his shoulder instead of his back.

“Thought it'd be better to leave them for the others. We don't need them, do we?” Rick cocks his head. “You up for a quick go?”

Daryl wheezes. “The others are right there! That's just- That's outright stupid. Damn well insane-”

“Cause I don't know about you, but I didn't get it out of my system.” Rick nods, maybe to himself, and peels the strap of Daryl's crossbow off his shoulder before he leans in close enough to speak right into his ear. “Trust me, it ain't gonna be a problem for me to be quick. They won't know a thing.”

Daryl clenches his ass, embarrassed beyond anything. His crossbow dangles from his fingers, and then it doesn't anymore; Rick takes it from him, and his backpack, and goes as far as to take the stupid sunglasses off too.

“What about you?” Rick asks, crowding against his arm in a crazy kind of way that just shines a fucking spotlight on the craziness that's always in him nowadays. “You gonna be quick too? Or do you need more attention?”

Daryl lets out a low, accidental sound. “Jesus Christ, Rick.”

Without waiting for another answer, Rick opens his backpack and fishes out his great haul: a tube of transparent lube no one bothered to loot because no one bothers to fuck someone in the ass now because it's the end of the world and the smell of rotting corpses should keep each and every cock in existence in a very shrunken state.

“Just- Rick.” He possesses enough brain matter to lead them around the counter, and he's quite proud of it too. At least the others can't see them from the street this way—only if they come offering their help to loot this place.

The clink of Rick opening his belt makes his blood boil even before Rick tells him to drop his pants.

He's bent over the counter before he knows it, his bare ass hanging in the cold air and Rick's slick fingers fumbling their way into him without hesitating.

It's quick, like Rick said; he pushes into him not a minute later, and Daryl feels raw all over with it. He holds onto the edge of the counter and keeps his body tense enough so his dick doesn't get crushed against it, but nothing else.

They ain't touching, and they're wearing all of their clothes, but he's so hard he's afraid he might come just from Rick fucking him.

It'd be too much—of everything. Way too much. Rick would know, then.

Daryl bites down on a moan and reaches under himself to help things along. He's done in what he hopes is longer than it feels (just moments), rocking back against Rick - on him, driving himself deeper and shaking out a pathetic noise as Rick grips his hips so tight he's gonna leave bruises. He keeps pounding into him while Daryl stares at the white stripes on the counter and tries to catch his breath.

When it's over, Rick lets out a long sigh and drapes himself over his back.

Daryl's arms shake with the effort not to lean into the mess he's made, and it's damn well uncomfortable having Rick still inside of him - no wonder he told him to get off so quickly the last time - and there are too many black spots dancing in his vision and his legs ain't feeling too stable either, and it's _good_.

Easy to pretend Rick's holding him because he wants to instead of being unable to stand after combining exercise with malnutrition.

“Mhh,” Rick says again. His thumb slipped under Daryl's vest and is sliding over his skin in small, slow circles.

Way too easy to pretend.

*

When Lori dies and Rick goes insane, his Mark starts burning.

It's gotta be in his head. He never heard of a connection like that—he never heard much about soulmates to begin with, because it's private and for two people alone, but still. Might be unnormal, this burning and itching.

He hurries to the showers more often than reasonable to check if Rick's name disappeared. There ain't no such thing as a disappearing Mark, he knows, but in case they do after all, he's memorized the letters to a point that's unhealthy, and he can't fucking sleep without tracing them in the dark, and when he's thinking about how that might look for the others - him lying there with his hand moving low over his belly - he doesn't know what to do anymore.

He needs Rick to touch it so badly he's gonna crawl out of his skin soon.

—

_I need you._

That's what Rick said. In front of the others.

“Come along, Darlena. We got a ways to go before we can call it a day.”

Daryl grinds his teeth and follows Merle's trampling footsteps away from the car with Rick who looked at him and said _I need you_ before that. His heart feels like it's about to burst out of his chest it's beating so hectically, and the damn echo is back too.

Before, it was gone.

He didn't know it was gone, but now he does, and he doesn't know what to do with the information like he doesn't know what to do with Rick's speech.

“Wha's wrong with ya?”

“Nothin',” Daryl mumbles, his back tight with a sudden pain now too. It's almost like back in Atlanta, or maybe even worse; back then, he didn't know shit about names and sunglasses in looted supermarkets and passionate speeches that make him wanna cry.

It takes him a moment to realize Merle stopped walking.

When Daryl looks over his shoulder, he finds his brother frowning heavily—but not in an angry way. Looks like something else, something that got no business being on Merle's face.

“Oh, lil brother,” Merle says slowly. “Lemme guess.”

“Don't.”

Merle stomps over and grips the back of his neck, hard. “Should'a seen this comin'. You always gotta go the extra mile to find the trouble, don't ya?” He blows out a heavy breath and bodily turns him around. “Don't get me wrong, I don't wanna hear nothin' about it, but how the _hell_ did you let this happen?”

“Don't,” Daryl croaks. “I ain't- None of this is my damn fault. I didn't wish for nothin' of the sort, I-”

“Alright, alright.” Merle rolls his eyes. “Quit whinin', baby brother, I was just messin' with ya. It is what it is, and you damn well know it. Now, let's get this over with. Ain't gonna get any easier from standin' here and yappin' all day long.” He pulls him forward by his neck, turning the way they came from. “Damn though, it ain't gonna be awkward _at all_ turnin' up again like that.”

Daryl licks his lips, eyes set on the forest floor. “Rick ain't doin' so well right now. I'm gonna make him see reason.”

Beside him, Merle snorts. “Oh, I know you will, but that ain't gonna make it less awkward when I'll see him look at you with those puppy dog eyes again.” Merle gives him a sharp look. “It ain't gonna be a walk in the park for me to know that sooner or later, he's gonna try an' use that look on you for _other_ reasons, if you catch my meanin'. You gotta stay strong, baby brother, or you ain't never gettin' up from where he's got you under his heel. Just remember that.”

Daryl looks back at the path and pretends he doesn't know anything about anything, and somehow, it works; Merle keeps his mouth shut about it all the way back to the prison.

—

They're sitting in the half-light of a few meager candles scattered around the kitchen area and play truth or dare. That's what it feels like, at least. Maggie's been pestering everyone with too many questions, personal ones at that, and these people keep answering as if they ain't personal at all.

They call each other _family_ now.

At the other side of the table, Rick's leaning back in his chair with his knees spread wide and Judith asleep square over his chest. Her small fist is clenched around the hem of Rick's shirt. Every once in a while, she lets out quiet little grunts that sound like hiccups, and Rick rubs her back until she settles again.

Since they finished eating dinner, he hasn't found it in himself to look away from them for longer than a minute. For about the same time, Merle's been watching him watching Rick, and he ain't even bothered by it like he should.

“Daryl, what about you?” Maggie asks lightly. “Ever wrote any love letters like our Carol here?”

Merle barks out a short laugh.

“Shut it,” Daryl tells him, then he turns to Maggie. “I dunno what those words mean. Sorry, you gotta ask the next in line.”

“Oh, come on,” Maggie crows. “You can tell us.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Glenn, do try to keep yer woman in check.”

The others giggle like a bunch of schoolgirls. Maggie grins at him too.

“You know you don't have to answer. I don't mean anythin' by it.”

He waves her off. “Yeah, I know.” And he does. None of this teasing is real. It would've been a few months ago, and now he's got to pretend to be annoyed that he's being asked personal questions.

Something ain't right with his head for sure.

“So.” Maggie fiddles with the hem of her shirt - unusual enough - before she turns to Rick. “And you? Ever needed to write Lori love letters or did it all come together on its own? Like fate intended.”

There's no more air in the room.

She's asking about their _names_.

It's so inappropriate, he's glad Hershel ain't here to witness it so they don't have to sit through a whole lecture on it.

“I did my fair share of wooing, including movie dates, flowers my mother had to buy because I don't have an eye for that sort of thing, and one truly horrible pie I baked for her birthday.” Rick huffs out a small laugh and glances around the circle of his friends. Family. He still looks haunted and thin and slightly off, but he doesn't give off no more dangerous vibes. “We waited,” he goes on, lower this time. “After a month or two, it was clear they wouldn't come.” He shrugs. “We didn't let that hold us back, though. Made the best of it with what we had.”

The room's quiet, though Merle's watching him.

Because they didn't get their names. Rick and Lori. They didn't—

He's gonna be sick.

“That was brave of you,” Beth says, matching the quiet. “I don't think I could do it.”

They had green beans and squirrel for dinner, and Daryl can taste both of it in the back of his throat. Any moment now, he's gonna lose his food all over their circle and reveal what it's all about.

He jerks up from his seat. “I gotta- I forgot to-” Jesus Christ. Daryl turns on the spot and marches out of the cell block and into the open to breathe in some fucking air.

_No names_.

That kind of hope ain't supposed to be real. It's just pretend.

This can't be happening.

—

Merle is dead.

Daryl has been sitting by the watchtower so he doesn't have to sit by the graves because Merle ain't ever gonna have a grave; he left his body behind because he only got his bike with him and he couldn't get Merle up on it.

A few hours ago, Rick came to sit by his side, and he's been sitting there since. Hasn't said a word yet, but that's alright; he ain't saying a word either.

Wouldn't know where to start.

When the sky turns from black to gray and the first colors come back to life over by the trees, Daryl gets up on creaking knees and pops his back to stop feeling like a dry piece of wood left out in the sun for too long. Rick looks up at him, so it's easy to jerk his head towards their cell block and lead the way.

It's not a real plan until Rick follows him without a single question - first behind him, then coming up to his shoulder and simply taking every turn and set of stairs with him.

Around them, the soft sounds of sleeping people go on with no one being any wiser.

When they reach the showers, the sun's high enough to shine at least a bit of light through the milky windows. Enough they don't gotta light candles.

Enough for this purpose.

“Daryl?” Rick asks, low.

He thought Rick was done for after Lori, but he came back, and now he's switching between batshit crazy and fairly normal on a daily basis. Sometimes from hour to hour. But all through this endless night, Rick stayed sane and let him deal with his stuff on his own terms.

Daryl's heart swells to an unhealthy size, beating in his throat and adding to the pressure of all the tears he didn't cry once he got back to the prison. He knows he could've, but something's always stopping him when he ain't alone, and as much as he likes—as much as he's fond of—as much as he _respects_ Rick, he can't do it in front of him either.

Licking his lips, Daryl glances at the door one last time and briefly debates if he should lock it somehow. To give them privacy.

He doesn't because there ain't nothing here to bar the door with, and what's the point if they'll be quick? It's early enough in the day, and the last time didn't take more than a couple of minutes either.

He turns his back to Rick, facing the tiles, and pushes his pants down to his ankles.

“Daryl.”

Daryl braces himself against the wall. “Come on,” he mutters. “I just- Come on, man.” He wants to say please, but that would be too much after all. Instead, he shuffles his feet apart as far as he can without kicking his pants off all the way and goes as far as to cant his hips back, practically shoving his ass in Rick's direction like a whore who's expecting to be paid double.

Rick grips his hips and steps closer. “We don't have to do it like that,” he says, rubbing his thumbs over Daryl's hipbones. “Turn around, yeah?”

“No.” _Hell_ no. “Fuck me or don't,” he adds, fucking crass and embarrassing both. The second option ain't an option at all, and only when he says it, he realizes Rick could actually take him up on it and don't do shit at all.

But he's Rick, and he's got both his crazy eyes and his nice hands on him, and he's already asking for something to slick him up with.

There's no lube here, but he's got the grease for his arrows with him and that'll do.

Daryl squats down to rummage through his pockets and lets out a quiet sound that's definitely not a moan when Rick helps him back to his feet. He's too exhausted for any of it. His Mark keeps on burning and itching and generally making itself aware, and he knows it's only in his head, but it just adds and adds to this day while the sun rises and a new one's already starting.

He braces himself back against the wall and leans his forehead on his arms, eyes closed and waiting.

It takes Rick forever to finish prepping him.

The muscles in his back hurt from jutting his hips back, and it's starting to get late enough people might wake up and go to the showers themselves. For real showers. With water. To get clean.

Not for a third finger when two have always been enough.

It's the kind of attention Rick never paid to him, and Daryl's so goddamn empty and exhausted, he ain't got the strength in him to tell the man off for it. He just lets it happen, lets Rick in and out and in again, changing angles, slowing down, testing whatever he's testing. There's a spark of something that makes him rut forward, trapping Rick's fingers with the force he's clenching around him because it feels so fucking amazing, but that happens only once.

Thank god. Getting his ass fingered ain't supposed to feel good. That Rick's doing it is more than enough shame he can handle—enjoying it would mean he'd have to break Rick's jaw and never let him touch him again.

“I got a call,” Rick says as he pulls out.

Daryl opens his mouth to ask what he's on about, but Rick's forcing him down by his neck until he's almost bent in half, and then he stops touching him altogether.

“The hell-”

“No,” Rick says. “I said it was a call. I don't want to talk about it.”

“I didn't _ask_.” When nothing else comes, Daryl looks over his shoulder and sees Rick staring at his ass. He clenches, hopefully unseen in the half-dark of the room, and clears his throat. “Rick, man. Come on.” It sounds too soft, but Rick doesn't seem to notice; he just keeps watching him.

“Why don't you ever turn around?”

Because he ditched the hope that rose in him when Rick told the whole world that he never got Lori's name on him as soon as he got back to his senses.

Daryl pushes away from the wall and bends down to grab his pants. “I ain't a damn woman, Rick. You wanna do it like that, you go and find someone else to do it.” His heart fucking stings from the words, but Rick can't keep asking—Rick's back behind him, keeping him low and steady with a heavy hand pressing down on his spine.

“We ain't finished here,” Rick tells him. “Don't be so impatient.”

Impatient, the man says.

This is supposed to be about _him_. Rick forgot how they got here and why and what's it for. Getting it out of his system was a goddamn joke, and doing it cause he found lube was a joke too, and the biggest joke is getting Rick to fuck him to feel something that ain't a rerun of how it felt to smash Merle's face in.

Rick's pants drop to the floor, belt clinking and the small jar of grease rolling away from them before Rick pushes in with a growl and starts pounding into him like a mad man.

Because he is.

Something ain't right with him that he's allowing it, but something ain't right with Rick either, so that's just fine.

Least he's got enough control over Rick to make this happen, no matter that tears are stinging in his eyes from the events of the day and the roughness and the stupid little grunts Rick lets out. And he thinks, scrabbling for purchase on the wall—even if his ears weren't rushing like they do, he's almost sure there ain't no echo in his heartbeat at all.

—

Rick starts gardening full-time. He won't touch him anymore.

It's alright.

He doesn't need Rick. He got along on his own (with Merle, who's dead) just fine, he ain't never needed a partner or whatever Rick thought this was shaping up to be.

And he's got the runs, still, and he's going, still, with Michonne. She's as unused to being locked into one place as he is, and he's pretty sure that if he'd swing that way, he'd swing her way _all_ the way.

As it is, they drive through deserted streets and not so deserted neighborhoods without talking much.

Until she asks about his Mark one day. Like she's got laser eyes or something, able to peek right through his clothes.

Chewing on his thumb, Daryl stares at the trees rushing past the car window and tries to decide if he should be offended. And then why he ain't. “'s unrequited,” he says after a while, grunting a bit to show this is gonna be the end of that line of questioning.

“Had it for long?”

Daryl eyes her profile. She doesn't eye him back. “A while,” he mutters. “Why?”

Michonne shrugs. “Just curious, I guess. At least you know they're still alive.” She smiles ahead, and the longer it goes on, the sadder it looks.

Acutely in crisis, Daryl stares back out of the window. The trees made room for fields that ain't been harvested in more than a year. Soon, new plants will try to push out through the rotten grain left from last winter, but most of them ain't gonna make it.

Like the person behind Michonne's Mark.

“They fade?” he asks when he's sure he ain't gonna start crying or anything, just thinking about it. “The names fade, after?”

“Yeah,” Michonne says. “They do.”

—

Daryl sits in his cell and cleans his arrows and minds his own business, and Rick comes barging in through the curtain like he owns the place. He gets something like a panic attack before he notices that Rick looks antsy as hell—or whatever it means that he's scratching himself like that.

“What?” he asks. “'m busy.”

He ain't, but Rick's gardening, and he decided that enough is enough because that one time in the showers made him avoid those rooms for weeks after, and he ain't keen on repeating the experience.

“Look.” Rick shoves his hand down the back of his shirt, probably halfway to his shoulder blades, and scratches on like a man possessed. Soon enough, he'll get a cramp and won't stop yammering for hours. “Look,” Rick says again, crouching in front of him and the cot. “I know you're not a woman, alright?”

It's been _months_ , Jesus Christ _._

Rick grips his knees and pulls himself closer until he's wedged in between Daryl's thighs.

His breathing speeds up even before Rick's hesitant fingers start to work on his belt. Good god, he's gonna have some kind of seizure just from watching it.

Rick's right there, opening his pants. The way he's crouching, he's got his very own name in his direct line of sight, and he's opening his pants to—do something. Some kind of plan he'll never find out about cause Rick _can't_ _see his name_.

No fucking way he'll let his hopes get crushed like that when Rick's proposing to get him off. Or whatever he's aiming for.

Don't matter.

It can't happen, is all.

Daryl catches Rick's hand as if he practiced the move a hundred times. He damn well hasn't, but Rick's looking at him out of big eyes, so he goes right ahead and puts their hands over his crotch, squeezing himself with Rick's fingers to commit the feeling to memory if he's only ever getting it this once. It's so worth it. Playing bold, Daryl licks his lips and watches as Rick follows the movement without taking his hand away from his dick. It's as much of an invitation as he's gonna get.

Daryl swiftly grabs the man to switch their positions. A moment later, he's where Rick was before, and Rick's looking down at him with his pupils blown wide from nothing at all. The distraction is harmless enough, and dammit if he hasn't thought about doing exactly this a hundred times before, from the moment Rick first came to his tent.

Is about time, Daryl thinks as he yanks Rick's fly open and pretends his hands ain't shaking. It's the middle of the day and the door is just a curtain, and his stomach's fluttering like nothing good.

When he pulls him out, Rick's half hard already.

“You don't have to,” Rick says in a quiet and careful kind of way. As if he thinks he doesn't know that.

Daryl shoves Rick's shirt up and checks if he's got a Mark on his chest too.

There ain't none, only hair and an obvious lack of belly fat as a leftover of Rick's crazy-days. The coincidence would've been too great anyway. That never happens, sharing the same spot. The idea was stupid.

He's stupid.

Frowning at himself, Daryl drops the shirt, bends over, and sucks Rick's cock right into his mouth. His teeth are in the way, judging by Rick's hissing, and he's choking a minute in when Rick fills out fully, and then he's sort of crying but only with his eyes because he can't breathe all that well and Rick's carding his fingers through his hair like he's an especially well-trained dog.

“God,” Rick sighs. “I knew you'd be good at this.”

He's thought about it. _He's thought about it_.

Daryl whines, unsure, and lets Rick slide out of his mouth for long enough to fumble his own pants open. As long as he keeps kneeling in front of the bed, his shirt and the angle should hide the name from Rick's eyes.

He fucking hopes so, at least.

Looking up at the man, Daryl roughly strokes himself while mouthing at the head of Rick's cock, trying to keep as quiet as he can.

Curtain - door.

Curtain - door.

Curtain—he's coming all over his fist, and then Rick's pushing his head back down and makes him swallow him and everything that follows when he comes himself, and Daryl finds that he can't stop until Rick pulls him off by his shoulders.

His breath comes fast enough to make him lightheaded, and for a terrifying moment, he thinks that if Rick asked for a second round, he'd do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

But Rick doesn't. He ain't in no hurry to leave either, just eventually, but Daryl's heart keeps on hammering and his cheeks keep on feeling warm all the way till morning anyway.

Then the prison falls.

*

They're all dead, he tells Beth. Even Rick.

Truth is, he doesn't check his Mark, and he ain't gonna do it in the future either. The thing about hope is that it's this fickle idea he keeps depending on, and he ain't giving that up for nothing. If that means he'll have to piss with his eyes closed from now on, be it so.

Even if Rick's name didn't fade yet—Rick ain't here, and with the way his heart's beating, he'll die soon enough anyway.

—

They're on their knees. Rick and Carl and Michonne. They're on their knees by the side of the road and Rick's got a gun to his head.

Joe needs to _die_.

Something in his chest snaps—maybe his heart, finally, or just a rib when one of the kicks lands too hard.

Rick barks out a _no_ , and that's all the confirmation he needs to know this ain't no nightmare or final dying thought. No granted wish either, as horrible as that would be. He ain't so cruel to wish Carl in a situation like this, no matter how much he needs to be by Rick's side.

And if Rick thinks calling him 'brother' is where they stop on their path, then he'll follow his lead and keep quiet about the rest too.

Finding him again in a world this broken; it's already as good as it gets.

—

Rick is _feral_. He's the most beautiful creature the damn Lord ever created, and when those eyes land on him, after, when Rick's bloody and caked in dirt and holds Judith in his arms, and Daryl's heart is already three times its size with having Carol back with them, he thinks he needs to take his chances after all.

It's been a week since he found Rick, and now they found all the others too. If that ain't a sign, he doesn't know what is.

“You alright?” Carol keeps her eyes on the bundle that's Rick, Carl and Judith, but her shoulder gently brushes against his arm.

“Am now,” he says honestly. “Could ask you the same question, though.”

Carol glances up at him and purses her lips. “No, you can't. I didn't get back what I lost. _You_ did.”

They're quiet for a moment, then Carol sighs.

“You know there's no happy ever after for any of us. If you don't get your act together before all this-” She gestures around the clearing, taking in all their friends and even the new folks they collected in that vile place. “Before all of this gets taken away again, you will regret it. Make the most of it before that happens.” With a sharp nod, Carol leaves him be and wanders off towards Glenn and Maggie.

Something happened to her.

He can't ask because her eyes say that she doesn't want to answer, so Daryl keeps his mouth shut about it and about any questions he has regarding how the hell she found out about his problem in the first place.

Maybe she just thinks he's carrying a torch for Rick.

Don't matter, because she's right.

They ain't safe and they ain't ever gonna be safe: not trying is even more stupid than pining for the man from afar when they already fucked a few times.

In the evening, they find an abandoned house to crash in. There ain't no water - none of these houses have water anymore - but once it's dark, Daryl tiptoes into the bathroom anyway. There's a big window next to the sink, and when he's pushing the curtain aside, the moon lights up the room just fine.

Daryl opens the first button of his jeans and peels his shirt up so the moon shines its light on his belly.

The name is still there, of course.

He hasn't looked at it in so long, his heart squeezes almost painfully. Nothing's changed at all; the letters look the same, as does the way they're leaning slightly to the right. There's nothing faded about them either, he can read them as well as that first time back in the CDC.

Daryl swallows and traces the letters until he's heavy with it, both in his heart and down below, and that might not even be a bad idea. To get rid of some of the tension inside of him. To make him calmer so he can make his move. So he ain't too eager or too crass or too forward.

Yeah, that's a good plan.

For the first time since finding the Mark, Daryl feels brave enough to look down while he's doing it, letting the moon shine on him and watching the whole picture. He angles his head to the side so it's in the shadows, and then it's fucking perfect—a spotlight on that part only, everything in the dark but Rick's name and his dick and his hand pumping.

Daryl muffles his final groan by clenching his teeth and then cleans up in record time.

Back in the main room, most of the whispered conversations died down and made room for a sea of sleeping people.

With a nod to the bear of a man on watch who's apparently called Abraham, Daryl makes his careful way to the spot he secured himself before. It's a coincidence that it's beside Rick's. Could've been anywhere.

Sort of happened naturally.

And Rick's still awake too, lying on his side and watching him without moving.

Daryl chews on his lip and makes sure not to step on the man as he sits down, knees pulled up and the back of his head thudding against the old wallpaper.

Somehow, Rick reaches over and grips his ankle.

They look at each other through the dark.

The longer it goes on, the tighter Rick's grip gets, and Daryl's got no idea what it means until he remembers that there was no water and that maybe Rick could be able to smell what he did. Since all the cleaning he did was wiping himself down with the curtain in the bathroom.

But if Rick can smell it, the others might too.

But the others are asleep, and Rick ain't.

“Rick,” he whispers, lost.

Rick squeezes his ankle and looks at him, and Daryl looks back thinking it might be the most important thing ever to make _sure_ Rick knows what he did. To get his act together, like Carol said. So he thinks back on it with abandon; the moon and the name and having to clench his teeth and angling himself just right to put a spotlight on what's supposed to be Rick's only.

With a low sound, Rick slips his fingers under the leg of his jeans and drags them over his skin.

Probably means he knows now.

“Go to sleep,” Rick says roughly, while feeling him up. “You've got enough _excitement_ for one day.”

Yeah, he knows.

Daryl grins to himself and only briefly wonders if all of that helped things along now or not.

Don't matter; he's feeling better and he reminded Rick of what they already shared a few times, and Rick's not repulsed by it because he ain't been repulsed by anything he's done to and with him so far, and knowing that alone is goddamn worth it.

Can only be good. Things will be different from now on, he just knows it.

*

First Rick shaved off his beard, and now he looks at her like he's thinking about mounting her right on the street outside their nice new house with its white paint and neat fences surrounding the fucking _lawn_.

Daryl hasn't showered yet.

If it were up to him - and it ain't, Carol made that clear - he wouldn't do so in the near future either, because he wouldn't be here by then. He'd be back where he belongs, driven out by them crazy Alexandrians who think they've got life all figured out behind their walls and with no one but Aaron and Eric trying to make sense of the land around them.

He's gonna lose his fucking mind.

Rick already did; put on a uniform and got a hard-on for the suburban wife with the abusive husband. In Rick's head, the man's already dead. It's only a matter of time. He may be nice and clean now, but he's all fucked up on the inside. Scratching his back like crazy, running around without seeing a thing.

Damaged for good.

He's an animal, and Daryl can't leave without him.

—

Rick finds him at the back of the house where he sits cleaning his crossbow—keeping out of sight for exactly this reason.

At least he's out of his uniform.

“What?” Daryl says as soon as Rick pokes his head around the corner.

“I was looking for you.”

Fucking figures.

Daryl flicks some dirt off the feather of an arrow and holds it against the light to check if it's still as smooth as it should be.

“Daryl.” Rick walks over and nudges his knee. “I want to show you somethin'. Come inside.”

“You got Pete's body in there now? I don't need to see that.”

Rick blows out an aggressive breath, and his hand is on Daryl's arm, suddenly, and he's _pulling_ —

“The hell, man?”

Rick pulls him all the way to his feet. There's a stern look on his face that ain't enough to sidetrack him from several other facts: there's gonna be a bruise on his arm where Rick's still gripping him, Rick's face is smoother than it was the first time he ever laid eyes on the man, and he's hard.

“Jesus _Christ_.” Daryl shakes the damn hand off. “The hell you want with that? Jessie's hole ain't good enough for you?”

For a moment, Rick's quiet, blinking like he's lost track of his last functioning brain cell. Then he grunts. “It ain't,” he says pointedly. “Now come with me.”

Mightily sure of himself, Rick marches off, and Daryl, mightily unsure of everything altogether, grips his stuff and follows him because he's got no clue what else to do - first around the house, then into it, then up the stairs, then down the hallway, and then up the ladder to the attic.

His crossbow gets caught and Rick has to give him a hand to pull him up into—a room.

It's got a wardrobe and a window and a mattress and a trap door that closes from above, which Rick does now.

When they're locked in, Rick gestures around awkwardly. “See - no body.”

Just a room.

“But there will be,” Rick says. “Soon. Just not here.”

He knew it. He goddamn _knows_ Rick. His soul knows him, his body knows him, what it feels like having Rick inside of him—what it feels like when he drifts away.

“So what do you think?”

“'bout what?”

“Your room,” Rick drawls. “I thought we'd break it in. To mark the occasion.”

Daryl stares, not moving an inch as Rick crowds into him.

“Take off your clothes.”

“No,” Daryl rasps before he even decides to do it. “No way, man. You can't- All the time, and I'm-”

“I know.” Craning his neck, Rick catches his eyes and blindly reaches for his shirt. “I'm sorry about that, Daryl. I truly am.”

That don't make it better, but he's yet to find something that could drive him away from Rick for good. He can't fucking do it. When Rick calls, he'll always be there, helping him with an open ear, a well-timed arrow, a shovel to dig a grave, a body to make him feel good.

There's no difference at all.

Daryl chews on his lip and looks down at Rick's fingers holding onto the edge of his shirt. He doesn't want to play shy, but even through the mess in his head he knows that he can't show Rick his chest. It'll have to happen like it always did.

He turns to face the wall and pretends this is fine.

“You know,” Rick says from behind him. “I thought to myself - what do I have to do? How long is it gonna take me to tame you?” Rick huffs, stirring his hair. “I'm beginning to realize that you ain't one for being tamed. You wouldn't _let_ me, just like you wouldn't let me be sweet to you.”

Daryl snorts out a laugh. “You figured that? Took you a while.”

“Until today,” Rick says without missing a beat. “Until I made sure you get the privacy you need up here in a room all for yourself, but you still think there's a catch. Always a catch, even with me.”

Something's in his throat, blocking all his words.

“So the plan's this now: I'll stop showing you and start telling you instead.” Rick steps closer, sneaks a hand around Daryl's chest and rests it on his belt. “And for that, I need you to take off your clothes.”

That makes no sense, but Daryl nods because he ain't sure he can speak and he ain't sure Rick wants him to speak anyway, with him whipping out his speeches again. The only thing left is to watch Rick fumble his pants down his thighs, burning the image into his brain in case it's not gonna happen again, no matter what Rick says.

Who knows how crazy he is right now. Any number of things could happen.

Like Rick's thumb brushing over the Mark without Rick even knowing he's doing it.

Daryl moans and pretends it's because he's naked from the waist down in a room with white-painted walls while he's everything _but_. He's so dirty, the moment he braces himself against the wall, his hand leaves a streak of whatever clings to him on it.

“You smell like the real world,” Rick mumbles, inhaling deeply. It's gotta be gross as hell, but he pulls Daryl's shirt over his head and plasters himself to his back anyway. “Daryl,” he says, chin hooked over his shoulder as he wraps his arms around Daryl's chest.

“Yeah,” Daryl rasps.

“Show me.”

Daryl swallows. “What?”

“You know what,” Rick says. “It's mine. I want to touch it.”

_No_.

Panicking, Daryl grips Rick's hand and guides it down to his dick.

Rick hums, giving it a slight tug with no pressure or heat behind it.

Because this ain't what Rick wants. It's the wrong solution, and he's got no more defenses left in him.

“I thought I'd go insane after the prison fell,” Rick whispers against him. “I thought you- But I should've known you'd make it. Who if not you, right? But we're finally in a safe place again and you still don't-” Rick huffs, tickling his neck. “I need you to show me now, Daryl.”

Daryl sobs a bit, like that first time Rick buried his fingers inside of him, centuries ago. It's almost too much to hear Rick say it like that, but he guesses, faintly, that's the reason why Rick's saying it in the first place.

Probably, the man knew all this time.

Probably, it took one time of fucking him for Rick to realize he'd follow him anywhere, and instead of leaving him well enough alone, Rick came back time and again.

Probably, Daryl thinks as he peels Rick's hand off him, Rick knew he was in love with him before he knew it himself.

They're sort of holding hands now. Rick's feels sweaty. He can't feel his own except for that it's shaking, but so's the rest of him, and Rick ain't commenting on either of it.

Daryl heaves a deep breath and guides Rick's hand to his name.

It's like a punch to the throat—to his fucking _heart_.

Rick snaps closer, rutting forward and pressing him against the wall. One of them is moaning. Might be in pain; Rick's hand is trapped between the wall and the Mark, as is Daryl's dick, pushing right up to the rough wallpaper and making his eyes sting with unshed tears.

“God,” Rick whispers.

It's all messed up.

“ _God_ , Daryl.” Rick drags his nose up to his jaw, humming like a crazy person. “Come here. Come on. Turn 'round.”

Daryl turns, scraping several layers of skin off his shoulder because Rick's pressing against him so heavily, and then he's attacked by everything Rick's got; he's kissing him in a messy clash of teeth and tongue and his own beard and Rick's lack of beard, and Rick's hand ain't leaving his name either, and it's so good and bad at the same time he might just come from it all.

Rick wrenches away. In the span of a blink, he drops to his knees and stares at his name from a few inches away.

And at everything else. Down there and everywhere, nothing hidden anymore, not even his soul.

Daryl focuses on the trap door while Rick mouths at the Mark, completely unconcerned about Daryl's dick bumping against his cheek or the many layers of dirt on his skin.

It goes on for a while.

When Rick squeezes his hand, Daryl looks down at him again.

“Sorry, got carried away there for a minute,” Rick says roughly. He looks insane again; the kind of feral that's so real he's never seen anything more honest about Rick. “What's wrong?”

“Nothin'.”

Rick rolls his eyes, which is a fucking lot since he's kneeling in front of a naked man with a cock merrily bobbing next to his face. “Don't be stupid now.” Rick's still holding his hand, and he's steering it over his shoulder and down the back of his shirt.

Daryl has to bend over a little. His dick brushes against Rick's ear, and the collar of Rick's shirt cuts off the circulation in his arm, and somehow, he starts crying.

“A bit further down,” Rick says, slowly stroking up his side.

Blinking through unnecessary tears, Daryl bends over even more—his heart skips a beat, clenching painfully, and then starts hammering like he's sprinting away from a whole herd of walkers.

“Itched something fierce for a while,” Rick says. “I didn't- I just didn't look at it until today. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Daryl.”

It's his.

He hasn't seen it yet, but Rick wouldn't lie to him.

It's _his_.

Rick loses his shirt before they're kissing again, this time with no teeth at all, but Daryl's got to see, there ain't no way around it, this can't be kissed away or taken on good faith.

He needs to see, and so he does—turning Rick around, finding his blocky writing between Rick's shoulder blades in stark, clear-cut letters. The proof. As if he needs any, with the way his heart's singing.

It's grown too big for his chest, but that's alright: it's got two chests to beat in now.


End file.
